


Stone and Plaster

by CloseToSomethingReal



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gorgon AU, I saw an angsty art this summer and it prompted this, M/M, and everything, enjoy, i guess, including my heart so that i could write this, look crowley is medusa and it's just angsty prose, read at your own risk i turned everyone to stone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:29:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23549941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloseToSomethingReal/pseuds/CloseToSomethingReal
Summary: There is a little garden, hidden away somewhere almost no one ever finds it. A garden full of ivy and weeds and statues.And those who do find it never return.I FINALLY FOUND THE ARTWORK THAT INSPIRED THIS!https://twitter.com/tvarinich/status/1161721283115139073?s=09
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	Stone and Plaster

He had never meant to be a sculptor. The lifeless stone arts never appealed to him, frozen features and hard lines.

He had created once before, yes, but it had never been a hobby he intended to learn again. Once given up, it was supposed to be gone for good. He had never wanted to create again, never wanted to watch the fruits of his labours flourish into what could be considered  _ art. _

The first sculpture was an accident. 

They were  _ all _ accidents. 

They scattered throughout the old emporium. Spread out from the door to deep within his refuge, grey clay and plaster and stone. Nothing moved, nothing breathed, although each statue seemed ready to draw breath at a moment’s notice, seconds away from life.

The sculptor had never once sought out a muse. It wasn't in his nature to create. It wasn’t something he sought.

Not anymore. Losing the power had been too painful for him to consider taking it up again, but he hadn’t known he had been cursed to do so anyways, in the worst way possible.

The statues, frozen in time, were not the only things that krept unwelcome through his little Eden. 

Ivy and vines circled his masterpieces, growth tangled their feet. He let them, for the most part, allowed the plants to crawl and fill the area with life where stone had stolen away breath into cold silence. 

The green vines captivated the entire area, tripped his steps and wound around his feet. 

He scolded them. Threatened to snuff out their very lives but could not lose the remaining life that surrounded him, cold as it was. 

They climbed the legs of his creations, around stomachs and chests, encircling throats and poking out mouths, choking out their stony lungs, covering blank eyes.

His muses were all kinds alike. Women, men, neither, children. 

He regretted the children almost most of all. 

Young children. 

The creatures who knew no better. 

He'd never wanted to hurt anyone. 

Especially the children. 

Some adults went searching for the sculptor to stop him. Those he understood why they had to be frozen, what had led them to this fate. It did not suit humans to search for things they did not understand.

But the children…

The only ever played. They meant no harm. Their frozen faces smiled from behind stone prisons, beckoning the newcomer to play, never sensing the danger that hid in the corners. 

He didn't try to make the statues. 

But they always found him. They didn't know to stay away. 

It wasn't until the centre of the emporium that the congestion of plants and statues tapered down. 

The sunlight filtered in through a hole in the roof, dappled the floor. It was the only sunlight that fell in the whole building. 

The sculptor kept the plants at bay, moved statues away from the little clearing in the middle of the shambled building. Everything was clear, the stones untouched and soaking up the sunshine that filtered in through the broken ceiling. 

Nothing could be allowed to touch that which stood in the center of the clearing. 

Most artists hated their first creation. 

That was also true for this sculptor. 

His first statue stood in the middle of his little clearing, dappled in sunlight.

The sculptor was exquisite. There was nothing to hate about it, it was perfect. A soft, gentle, tender face, curled hair, and empty eyes, and a plaster chest soaked in tears.

He didn't hate the artwork. He hated that it existed. 

He missed the statue’s gentle laugh and the way he had called him "dear boy,” back before hissing in his ears and terrified screams was all the creature cursed by God ever heard. 


End file.
